Travel

10/11/2011

Driving through Burgundy from Auxerre to Morey St. Denis the vines look tired, as if wiped out from a fever. I fe;t like patting them on their heads and saying, "Poor babies." They had a hard time since their stap started to flow. Hot, dry, cold wet, humid, hail, hot, wet, cold, hot. They didn't know which end to move first. And critics have expected the worst.

I'm here (apologies to JS) harrassing winemakers, trying to get to the bottom of their problem child, Aligoté, I've had a chance to taste several of the new vintages. Like last night I hung with Philippe Pacalet going through about a bakers dozen. The vintage is well and a live, good concentration and life. Driving south on the what used to be RN74, I realized the only responsible speculation a journalist can have is about the amount of work required in the vintage. Was it handed to them like a baby in velvet knickers on a velvet pillow or did they have to work like donkeys in Fes up to the last minute.

In 2011 it was the donkey year.

They fretted, worried and worked their ass off. They couldn't second guess, they had to live day to day and then pick really well. As in any challenging vintage the result is in the ingenuity, skill and compassion of the vigneron.

There will be plenty of good wines in 2011, in Burgundy. Check back in a year and a 1/2 to see if I'm right.

The name Hi-Matic reminded me of my first almost real camera, the Minolta Hi-Matic, one of the first gifts my father handed off to me, on a dreary winter ride to Jones Beach, when he was trying to figure out how to be a father to me as he had adopted a new family of his own. Funny how that vision came to me. But as it turns out, this Hi Matic is the new hotel in the 11th.

On my last night in France, in Paris, I walked up from Bastille and entered what I soon found out was a strictly DYI stay.

The hotel, dressed in slightly adjusted primary colors jolted me into Matali's universe and I tried to check in. Well, I tried to. I couldn't quite figure out that I was supposed to check in myself and what I was supposed to do. You see, there's no concierge, per se. But someone quickly showed up to assist. Then my room had no shades, and with the shower in full view of the window, I thought that was a bit much, no problem, they switched my room in a flash.That's the way it is at the Hi-Matic, the people taking care of you are almost invisibile, but if you need help, they're there.But mostly, in the age of smart phones and wifi, who needs a concierge to fuss over you anyway.

Forgotten or longed for items can be had from the Horn n Hardart- like vending machines, including extra hangers, organic snacks and the wine guide book RED. If you check out and need a place to stash your bags, there are the spacious lockers.

Matali's design sense is a scrubbed Scandi-meets Japanese functional Wabi-Sabi and way cute of Kawaii. The way she blends it comes together in the Hi-Matic is jungle gym goes hostel aesthetic.

The rooms are pod-like, lean, multi-purpose, shower strong. These aren't rooms you'll want to hang in, but they are serviceable if extremely tiny. Take a look at these colors and the lounge chairs, very amusing especially as they reflect the hotels clothing boomerang-ish hangers. In fact the design is always referring back to itself in unusual ways and just straddling the line of child/adult. Even down to the organic breakfast,

As long as calibrate your expectations for hostel instead of hotel, you'll be fine. Except for one crabby, grumbling couple who clearly made a mistake, most around me were amused, happy and curious.

06/19/2011

Kremstalian Demeter certified Nicky Moser, makes a fine zweigelt and pinot. Yes, he was fascinated with a wine that was not his. This was something from the OTHER Salamon not imported into the US by TT, Fritz. "My wife will bring us down a bottle," he said.

He was far more interested in tasting me on his friends wines than his. When does this ever happen? The wine it turns out was a no -sulfur wine being made by Fritz since.....1995!!!

"I serve it by the glass in my restaurant," says Fritz, "They buy it because it's cheap. No one ever buys the bottle."

Yet is was that riesling that Nicky and I loved. Just loved. It might have been one of the most enjoyable swirl and spits of my visit. Butterscotch nose, seaweed, umami, smoky, tangy, brimming with piss and vinegar.Touch of honey and long lasting. Admittedly, this was a very hard act for the Moser wines to follow. And Nicky is trying. He wants to go towards no -sulfur wines and Fritz is his inspiration. Hence his Minimal wines.

06/01/2011

I loved the look of the long gone restaurant Danube in Tribeca, it always made me want to show cleavage and risk high heels. But even though the interiors of Brushstroke , David Bouley's new kid is more Ikea than Klimpt, because of Chef Yamada's precise food attack I'm hooked.

While the New York Magazine review confused me, and I was left thinking that what Adam really craved was sushi instead of kaiseki fashioned cuisine, there was one little morsel that was one of the most exciting tastes I've had in ages: fresh hearts of palm in a basil miso sauce. When even one bite in a restaurant causes a swoon, that is a restaurant worth risking all. This was a clean tasting hearts of palm pesto with such picquantry I had to resist the urge to stuff my mouth, ala potato chips. Of course the texture was different, almost like al dente artichoke heart but the impulse was to stuff my mouth, artlessly, just can't stop eatin fastly and furiously. Of course, highly unacceptable, I slowed down and toyed, coaxed and savored, then cleaned the bowl with my finger.

That was one lovely treat for the taste buds. Other memorables was the new tasting use of green tea (think texture) in the cocktails, thanks to mixologist Gen Yamatoto.

I also admit I'm a sucker for the use of lilac to decorate the plate.

Young sommelier baby-faced Seju Yang, (pinched from 15east)put together a well thought through list peppered with the bulk in the $100-$300 range but was kind to the under $120 as well, and was thinking that it might be cool to return and try the J. Roty Marsannay (2002) for $75. I was tempted by the wine but I gave my self over to the sake.

I admit, I sometimes get annoyed by the increasing volume and richness of the stuff, as if it is headed after the tropical chardonnay drinker. I know little about sake making technology but I'm eager to taste natural yeasted stuff, or at least sake that takes the foot off of the aromatic yeast pedal. And that is exactly why I loved when he indulged me with a side by side tasting of Chikurin Junmai Ginjo sake; same producer, one organic, (Ecocert) and the other conventional.

Both Seju and I agreed that the organic sake was far more complex and interesting while the other was common.

05/21/2011

Gianfranco Manca of Panevino, showing off the spirit at the London Natural Wine Fair. This, once baker from Sardinia's wines were gorgeous. Bottled not by name but barrel position in the winery. In the bucket was a field blend 'orange' wine that had a very deep rose color and plenty of tannin and so much crushed roses I was looking for bits of petals. Next to him was, oh, my god, Foti from Sicily. Joy.

++

Last week was the London Natural Wine Fair, a first in Borough Market, that foodie capital under the London Bridge. (though the best market I actually went to was Broadway Market in the East End in London Fields. Brilliant!)

All of you wine importers scrambling for territory take note. One Master of Wine (Isabelle Legeron, the only MW who has made Vin Naturel her cause) Les Caves de Pyrene and a few other competing distributors banded together to show their wines, for three days in one space. They were vying for their customers, they showed their wines together. I know this state of bliss will not continue, but I am stunned at the sweetness, coming together for a common love of these wines. I would love to see Joe, Savio, Jenny and Zev and Jose come together in one tasting. But, who knows, as the end of the world didn't happen today, perhaps there's a chance.

This was a perfectly orchestrated tasting, held outdoors, which was appropriate as M. Chauvet always said, one should taste in the open air. We did. It helped.

In my last two posts I addressed some resistance to these wines by the press. Jancis had said that the wines really weren't a force in London until a year ago which isn't exactly the case. Afterall Puzelat was being sold in Oddbins, no? I also remember finding some delicious wines in restaurants in Clerkenwell in 2006, but the difference is no one was calling them Natural Wines, they were just wines. And that is what I was drinking when I started to focus on 'real' wines over a decade ago, just wines. Wines that I liked. Now that they have a name, no matter what the name is, they have become something to contend with, which has created a very curious situation.

These wines have been called trendy. The outcry against wines that show some oxidative qualities have been viewed as trendy, those cloudy wines are trendy. I have to pose the question; isn't a trend something you wear, or a pet rock, but is it something to eat? I mean, it might be trendy now to eat offal, but who isn't going to eat pig trotters, tripe, durian if they don't think it suits their taste?

I'll speak for myself here; trendy or not, if I don't like the taste, it ain't going down the hatch. (by the way, I never stopped loving that trend of the 90's pink peppercorns. Sure they were pretty but they are tasty, and today I applaud when someone has the nerve to use them.)

So maybe 800 people came because they read about the wines and wanted to experience them. But the enthusiasm and the innocent excitement just smacked of authentic response. Some of the wines are for everyone, but many are not. And it's a good thing. I have no desire to prosletyze, because the truth is, right now, there's not enough of these wines to go around for those of us who love them. So if Margaret Rand doesn't like them, that's okay with me. I was very dismayed to bump into one wine writer who attended the Frank Cornelissen dinner and didn't really love the wines (I like the idea of them more than the wines, he said) came over to me on the second trade day, filled with smiles and said, "This is really exciting."

And I thought, damn. The writer who said his readers weren't ready for the wines, has changed his mind.

Here's a little pictorial.

To my right is a gent from Burgundy (via Australia) having a happy moment with Ron and Elva of Jasper Hill, an Australian (Victoria)winery I have wrongly ignored but I have to say, mea culpa. Lovely wines. And Ron is one of those thoughtful guys, who rejected science (he was a disillusioned food scientist) and yeasted his first year and never again, works with unirrigated vines, and well, the wines work. Even the shiraz. Why are these wines not available on the east coast of the USA?

Now THAT'A a trend. The blue packet in her shoe is a blue foiled Durex, aka condom.

Sylvie Augereau up from the Loire kicking her heels up (or sitting on them) at Terroirs.

We are at the end of the fair, and the growers and organizers banded together for photo op.

05/15/2011

"Why did you come so early?" Frank asked me when I walked into the wine oriented restaurant Brawn.

"To see you again," I said.

I'm here (apologies to J. Suckling) in London for the Natural Wine Fair and David Harvey, an intense man I met in France several years ago, and Frank's agent (Raeburn Fine Wine) in the UK was hosting him in several tastings. I met Frank in the fall, and I thought since I was coming anyway...perfect opportunity and the perfect opportunity to convene at Brawn, on an excitingly sleepy stretch, Columbia Road.

beautiful sprats at Brawn

The wines showed brilliantly (I'll record my notes later) most had been open for a day. The tannins are present, the texture and acidity of the wines distinct. The #4 Munjabel 07/07 was beautifully waxy, a quality I find on many of his wines, compelling.

FC has never ending observations, one of them is that he believes his wines taste better in Japan, away from the electromagnetic effect of the volcano he lives on.

I'm rushing to get to the London Natural Wine Fair where I still have no idea how I'll fill the time for an hour, but I wanted to stop by and say hi.

04/29/2011

Somewhere around the turn of the century, I was in the forest looking for peace. An owl overhead hunted a rodent. He whooshed and swooped, and pointed the way to a carpet of smooth leaves peeking out of the rotted leaves on the woodsy floor.

The next year, I was armed with knowledge that I wasn't going to kill myself if I ate what I picked. So, I counted the days and finally, I dug, I washed, I ate.

Thus was born a spring-time obsession.

On that first forage, and first sautée, my first pick was a Robert Michel St. Joseph. Spot on. It was so good I thought I must be a professional or something like that. The best pairing I ever had with the royal blades was probably a Chave St. Jo. In subsequent years, there have been a variety of wines, (as expected, the beaujolais is a no go in this case.) And also in the end, white or red, I like red.

I look for wines that are firmy, earthy, spicy, edgy. Pass the acid please.

You've got to find something to lean up against the ramps, not play patty cake with it. But lean. Trust game. Something with a good foundation that won't let you down. B

I haven't tried vin jaune or a good old oxidized savagnin, and you know what? I think that would be just the ticket.

This year if you're forgaging or just looking to choose a bottle to go with your potato and ramp creation, my favorite , and don't forget the cheese, why don't you try:

4. In a small saucepan, bring the half-and-half to a simmer with thyme and add, generously, salt and pepper. Remove the thyme and set the mixture aside.

5. Preheat the oven to 350 degrees.

6. Arrange about one-fourth of the potatoes in a layer on the bottom of the dish. Season as you go. Evenly layer in about one-third of the ramps, sprinkling cheese and a few spoons of half-and-half; repeat twice, finishing with a layer of potatoes. Pour the rest of the half-and-half over the potato mixture, allowing the liquid to hit just below the top layer of potatoes. Top off with the remaining cheese. Cover with foil and bake until the potatoes feel tender, about one hour.

7. Raise the oven temperature to 425 degrees, remove the foil and bake until the top begins to brown, about 10 minutes.

02/07/2011

The day after that gorgeous Les Clous (see below), I took the TGV to Avignon (will I ever actually see the town instead of the train station?) In the morning, we left Amy's puppies, we went to La Remise where I wondered if I'd ever return. There was something about tasting wines pre-malo, hard and unexpressed, especially when few wanted to seriously discuss their farming, the terroir and the vintage. Party atmosphere, the ubiquitous Utah Beach oysters. I found myself depressed.

Can I go home? Will I come back? Or was this merely jetlag. Not sure. Highlights? Natural wine from Greece! Finally. Crete and Santorini. No, I won't tell you now. You'll have to come back. Laureano's 2011's are tasting good. Great. And he has a new child in anfora which was damed tasty.

Andrea Calek was there with a new hair treatment, he told me he wasn't going to read my book but someone told him it was funny. He agreed. I don't know if he was laughing at me or with me, but it doesn't matter. He's a smart one, that one. I'll take with or at. It works.

That night, I went home with Amy by way of Le Tracteur where there was yet another tasting. Find? Yes. Jean-Sébastien Gioan's Domaine Potron Minet from Côtes-du-Roussillon.

Frankly it was hard to get me to taste another SW wine as so many just lack freshness, but this one, especially his white which is a blend of macabeu, grenache and muscat was peach, floral and apricot fuzz.

Once back with the puppies,

I gorged myself on her husband Matt's freshly made kimchee. He's got a thing for fermented foods and I really needed a vegetable.

Millesime Bio is that organic wine fair in Montpelier and an event I'm getting more fond of with each year.

Cheapish for the vignerons.

Great tasting conditions and some very fine wines.

Greatest hits? I fess up, ones that I know from here. I zoomed right over to taste barolo and Erbaluna (Savio Soares imports). I love those barolos. Really, and the 2006 is fragrant, sturdy, sandalwood and chalk. I reaquainted myself with the find wines of Cascina Cornia in Tuscany. This domaine, also imported by Savio Soares, by the way, stopped using copper in the vineyards in 1996, a fact I found compelling, and so were the wines. Gorgeous. Long macerations here and a great box wine. Along with the new domaine of La Porta di Vetrine, remembered what sangiovese tastes like and why years ago I loved it so much. Thanks guys. The Saladin sisters make a fabulous white wine, Per El a blend of 5 grapes all peach and rock. Le Pinte from the Jura gets better and better, Bruno Ciofi is doing great over there, so why isn't this imported into this country? Hello poulsard! And I ended happily with the burgundies of Giboulot. Elegant, even in the vintage I might be scared of, 2009.

Purpled teeth, I dinnered in town with Les Saladins, Amy and The Shep, a place where the Italians were retiring from their two days at La Remise, kiss kiss goodnight, knowing I would see Francesca and Alessandra at the gare in Blois.

12/14/2010

She does spa, I do not. I suspected trouble when my friend ordered me to pack my bag for a girl-trip.

Now, mention spa and she looks as pithed as a frog. She's a girlie-girl, she loves being indulged and just couldn't understand that at the mention spa I go claustrophobic.

I've had some experiences in the past; Wilbur Hot Springs in the days when it was very hippie--and communal. All I did was soak in the water, easy.

There was a massage at Meadowbrook Inn in Napa. The gentleman was so violent, I thought he was working out his hatred of mothers on my gluteals. I broke out in full body hives four days later--were these events related?

The only spa sleep-over was at Kripalu, due to a friend's request. Krip has a no alcohol policy, so I snuck in a flask, I felt like I was getting away with murder. We booked dinners where not only could we talk (they have a no speaking dining rule) but drink. We wended through the hospital like hall, past the walking wounded to our cell-like rooms. Come mornings, we ran to Lenox as fast as possible for the caffeine fix, the sneaks we were! So much for yoga.

Yet this particular time, at the beginning of December, I was as drained as week old juiced lemon. I had just handed my book draft in and my brain was sitting in one corner while my body was sitting in its Aeron. I admitted I was in need of a break. She was being kind. I was being given a gift, yet it felt more like a trip to the acupuncturist.

I did a little research. Barely anything written about family run Grande Dame on Montauk. There are Montes in chef coat, and Montes running the Spa and Montes in charge of the dining room and marketing. This is not just family run, this is dynasty and in America, rare.

But Gurney's fame is the spa, Long Island's only destination full-service spa, and one dedicated to Thalasso therapy.

Their Olympic sized indoor salt water pool was a huge selling point to me. The reviews on the treatments were glowing, but the ones on the rooms were tired.

After first determining that they would allow me to bring my own wine, (very kind of them, after all, I'm a fuss pot) I gave over to fate, packed a bathing suit, scouted out an escape plan, chose a Clos Roilette VV (2007) and a Monte d'all 'Ora valpolicella. Two bottles of wine when one might be corked was not enough, but never the less, headed for the LIRR, determined to do it with a smile.

Once the train passed Babylon, I was confronted with memories of college years at Stony Brook, the searching the feeling of being a misfit. "I hate Long Island," I sighed.

I didn't mean this as an sort of criticism, just a statement of my history with that lobster claw protrusion off of Manhattan.

"Are you going to be negative about this? If so, go home. Please!" my friend had already had it with me, a little over an hour into the ride.

There goes that friendship, I worried. She just could not understand my reaction. Her context? Fun in Hamptons and melting at Spa runs in her blood. We lived in different realities. I feared the sun. I never had a good Hampton moment. Holing up in a house in Walton, staying out til dawn and watching the planets rise and set, now, that I understood.

I assured her I was going to behave.

"Is this really torture for you?" she asked, stupified.

I peeled a tangerine and gave her half.

Medicine was ministered upon arrival a latte (decent) and a gorgeous linzer cookie. I was surprised by a level of authenticity about Gurney's, both, low-key and luxe. There was no artifice, there was no struggle to sing outside of their range. Even the European toy train decorated for Christmas in the courtyard seemed to make sense.

We scored one of the redone beach cottages. Quite new and fresh. Business -ready. Wifi everywhere. Those Yelpers, they know nothing, I thought.

I didn't need anything more but a corkscrew (which was in the kitchen).

There we were, winter outside, right on the bleached dunes (negative -ions! my friend reminded me.) a deck, the cadence of the ocean. My book in the hands of the editor.

Things were looking up. My attitude started to turn positive. All of those negative ions?

A massage was pre-destined. ('I'm not a spa girl,' I admitted. The masseuse broke out in laughter. Glad I could amuse her, but I also had the revelation that something was very off in my upbringing, neither Red-Diaper baby nor Spa-baby, but I had been caught in the netherworld of unfrill.)

I warmed up to the pedicure which, looking out to that clichéd beach at sunset, breathtaking. I never knew there were so many services one could do to feet in the name of 'treatment.' Soaking, oiling, massaging, oiling again, clipping, wrapping, heating, painting, spraying. The care given to my feet was biblical.

Then we had the vitamin C facial. With my face swaddled like a mummy, I could almost believe when the wraps came off I was beautiful and reborn. If only. Being a solitary sort, I was the most happy doing things under my own steam. Lapping in the extraordinary salt water pool, lapping on the beach, spotting the deserted Madoff house, a wounded sea gull, a lonely happy birthday mylar balloon bobbing on the water. But all around us were happy spa people and trend alert: two sweet-sixteen weekends. Instead of parties, parents are sending their teens to Gurney's for the weekend for spa-ing? In the morning, a group of them ran into the water (!) that's a little bit too much Thalasso for me.

At night, the local catch was a surprisingly delicious local flounder, doubled over, thick and as juicy as halibit. The dining room smelled like the fish places in Freeport, iced butter co-mingled with sea air, one of the few happy, transportational flights of the past.

I'm still not sure if that kind of pampering suits me. The 1947 Liger-Belair

(extreme roasted red pepper/tabasco, touch of smoked marshmallow, tannins worn down, acid perks it all up, and its structure stays fragile-and firm, works well with pizza potate and better with ricotta and blueberry honey)

is more my speed, or maybe a fierce fat-burning pilates class, or super-sized white truffle, perhaps it's the way I was brought up, but the idea of a stranger catering to my body for money merely for relaxation feels discordant. But I will tell you this: my feet sure look good, my skin glowed and I started to think kindly about their $100 a night winter rates as a getaway, if only to swim in that pool and write looking out at the ocean, the body that I usually only see when I fly over it on the way to Europe.

I had arrived with that escape plan, a lists of restaurants, coffee zones and even vintage stores. But just like being in the mountains when the outside world seems an imposition, we hunkered in. Neither one of us had any inclination of leaving until we had to catch the train. Me? Grateful and way more kindly to Long Island and spa-girl and I still friends.

The only glitch? Corked bottle of Valpolicella! So forseeble, so avoidable and I only had myself to blame.

11/01/2010

I've been through the station a million times and passed through on the way to the Beaujolais or to the Rhone or to Beaune but I never actually spent the night, let alone two in Lyon until early October. Long overdue.

The Hotel: Scored a brilliant rate in the old section, 5ème Arrondissement, at the Relais & Chateau Villa Florentine and several other people were packing the hill top spot (possibly that 80 euro special? A ridiculous coup for such splash.) Even better, the hotel is at the top of the stairs, so walking up the god knows how many, keeps you in shape for all of the eating.

Taking breakfast or a lunch near the pool, overlooking the spread of the city drove home the name and the design of the city as a little Florence.

The design of the rooms is a little, 90's and they are about to start a redo for 2011, so don't know if that low rate will ever again be available, (usual rates are up to 1000euro) but I was happy to have a refuge after spending every other night as a freeloader at friends.

I arrived on Friday, the weather was peachy, fall, Indian summer. I ran out, grabbed some chocolate and walked into a few wine stores which was incredibly sad. Barely a beaujolais in sight. After all, Lyon is a town that would rather align itself with the Northern Rhone, and that is telling enough. I felt like saying, for shame, for shame. Beaujolais has not gotten its proper due here.

After dusk, I ran down to meet Romain Reinhart a man who opened Le Saint Jus, a rather eccentric bar a vins/caviste spot at 76 Rue St. Georges, opposite the flamenco school.

The hours are eccentric. Evenings only. Small bites. Labels that are outside of the 'club.' Because of the law, if you stay there to drink, you must have some food, even if it is olives. But at glasses starting at 3 euro, this is no hardship. When there, I saw without a doubt a trend: vins naturel on the lable, and more of this-- we add nothing--as well.

Romain and I returned to my hotel to have a bite. Begging 'industry' they allowed us to bring some bottles wine. Taking a look at their wine list I was surprised to see some beaujolais presence, heavy on the Chateau Thivin side. When the sommelier tasted the wines Romain brought (a rare Lignier aligote, 2006, where they forgot to add the sulfurO explained he was into the hard core natural stuff and instead of offense the sommelier started the blind tasting game with us. Very fun!

Hard to think of eating in a hotel when Lyon and bouchons and local is at your feet but it exceeded expectations; clean, immediate. And then the sommelier was spot on.

The next morning, Eric Texier was expecting me, so I had a brief few hours to spend in the city and so there was nothing to do but walk to the train.

The night before I had been less than charmed by the old town, but in the morning, down the stairs, I took a quick right then a left then found myself near the Cathédrale St-Jean, not far from Romain's joint.

Maybe it was the crisp air, maybe the clarity, maybe it was the great bed, but there was joie de vivre that seemed infectious. Touristy sure, too touristy? No. I had two seconds to soak it in, ran to the other side of the River where the market was closing up. drooled over the last tomatoes and the new truffles. I could get neither.

Being alone at night, I missed one of the best tables in town En mets, fais ce qu'il te plaît,

which must be the longest name of a restaurant on the other side of the Atlantic. It was a hard choice, the wine list is said to be worhty, and the food extremely spot on the delicious and pure mark, but instead went to Vercoquin, on the seedy side of town. I had a pleasant enough salad. The real thrill was in my kind of vertical: Grammenon, Souhaut. Got the picture?

I'm hunting the Leon Trotskys, the Philip Roths, the Chaucers and the Edith Whartons of the wine world. I want them natural and most of all, I want them to speak the truth even if we argue. With this messiah thing going on, I'm trying to swell the ranks of those who crave the differences in each vintage, celebrate nuance and desire wines that make them think, laugh, and feel. Welcome.

And, if you'd like a signed copy of either THE BATTLE FOR WINE AND LOVE OR HOW I SAVED THE WORLD FROM PARKERIZATION or NAKED WINE, feel free to contact me directly.